Scarred by Vengeance (Titanium Book 2)

by Valia Lind

  I'm beyond tired.

  My limbs feel heavy.

  My mind is almost blank.

  It has never been this empty of thoughts and ideas before. Suddenly, I'm panicking.

  "Calm down. You're fine." The voice pushes through the fog and I find myself in the guest room, with Joy sitting on the bed beside me. I don't remember getting here at all. I thought we were still in Foster's house.

  "What's going on?" I ask, my words coming out sluggish.

  "Your system is on overload. It's a normal occurance in the early stages of adaptation," Joy explains, and for some reason, in my fogged up brain she sounds almost like she cares. There's a tint of concern to her voice, but I must be imagining that.

  "It hasn't happened before."

  "I'm sure it has. Just not in as big of a scale. You've experienced a lot today. You just need rest, to recharge."

  She runs a hand over my damp forehead, like I remember my mother doing when I was little, and just like that I can't fight it anymore. I close my eyes and surrender to the pull.

  I'm back in time.

  In that house.

  Surrounded by the flames.

  No. That's not right. The fire came later.

  I look around, trying to find my parents. I see the shadows moving at the front of the house as I dart toward my parent's room. But they're gone.

  This isn't how this happened. I twist around, looking every which way and suddenly Kyle is in front of me.

  "Kyle!" I whisper urgently. "There's someone in the house. Where's Daddy?"

  But Kyle doesn't move. He doesn't even seem to blink. I take a step toward him, trying to see his facial expression through the shadows. When I finally see his face, I scream.

  His eyes are gone.

  "Kyle? Oh my goodness, Kyle! What's going on?" I'm sobbing and screaming at him at the same time. I grab him by the arms, shaking him, but there's still no response. He’s here, but he isn’t.

  I back up slowly, still staring at the empty space where his eyes should be.

  This is wrong. This is all wrong.

  I turn and race out of the room, calling for my parents. No longer caring who will hear me, I shattered any illusions I had about staying quiet when I screamed at Kyle, I search for my family.

  Rounding the corner into the family room, I freeze at the destruction in front of me. Flames are eating everything in sight, preventing my progress forward. I watch as our family picture burns, the edges curling and curling, until all that's left is ash.

  Tears are pouring down my face, mingling with the heat coming off the burning furniture in front of me. I keep looking around but all I see are flames.

  Where are my parents?

  Why is this happening?

  I turn to go back to the hallway, my eyes landing on my reflection in a window. I'm not longer six year old me.

  I'm the me of right now.

  Seventeen.

  Broken.

  Stumbling back from my reflection, I race through the closest door, hoping to make it all go away. However, as soon as I'm through the door, it slams shut behind me. I bang on it, trying the handle, but it won't budge.

  "Mom? Dad? Where are you? Daddy!" I'm screaming and sobbing, just like I did trying to get through to Kyle. But now I'm alone in a dark room and there's no way out. Crawling farther in, I stumble in the dark to find some stationary point. When my hands touch the wall, I curl up against it, my heart breaking all over again.

  Just as suddenly as the fire came, now there is light.

  I look up and I'm no longer in the pitch dark room. I'm now inside one of the shipping containers on the docks, much like the one I was held in less then two weeks ago. I hear people talking, but I can't understand what they're saying.

  Getting back on all fours, I crawl to what looks like a huge wooden crate. It's roughly the size of a big dinning room table and it hides me from view. I peer around the side of the crate and see four men deep in a conversation. One of them steps to the side and I see the man who's speaking. It's my dad.

  I'm about to get up and run to him, when someone clasps a hand over my mouth pulling me back down. I look up and find an younger version of Logan staring down at me. He shakes his head, then takes his hand back and places it over my own. Tugging on it gently, he crawls away from the crate and that's when I realize we aren't in a shipping container. We're in some kind of a rectangular room. The walls are white, blinding, and there's a door on the other side of where I was laying.

  Logan and I crawl to it and the next moment, we're out in a long hallway. He stands up, but continues tugging me toward the end of the corridor.

  "Come on, Anastasia. Come on," he keeps repeating, holding on to my hand tightly. I have no choice left but to follow. When we come to a half open door, he tugs me behind him, before shutting the door.

  "Your dad will be so mad if he finds out we snuck in. You know that," Logan says, climbing up to sit behind a desk.

  I look around and find us in a sort of a break room, with a fridge on one side, a microwave and a coffee maker on the counter beside it. Logan is now seated at one of the tables in the middle, a bunch of papers in front of him. I take a step closer and see that he's coloring.

  As I study him, I realize he can't be more than seven. He looks so innocent, so untarnished by the ways of the world, like most children at that age do. I take another step forward, coming to stand close enough so that I can see what he's coloring. It's Captain America. But it's not a coloring page. It looks like he drew it himself.

  He moves his arm and I see a comic book open to a picture of Captain on it. It's smaller than the one he drew, and a lot more detailed, but that's definitely where he got the idea. He didn't trace it, he drew it by looking at it, adding a few things here and there. I never knew he could draw.

  "Why are you staring?" He asks, looking up at me with those shining eyes of his.

  "That's a really cool picture," I reply, pushing away the need to cry. I can't get over how much he looks like the Logan I left behind. Before his betrayal. Before his lies.

  "Well, duh. We did it together." He rolls his eyes at my, what he thinks obvious antics, and goes back to coloring the shield. I don't remember being here, but I feel like this is more of a memory than a dream.

  "Logan?" I try to get his attention back to me. "Why would Daddy be upset?"

  "Because—" he drags out the word, all exasperated that he has to explain. "He doesn't like us being in the lab. He doesn't want us to his touch stuff again."

  "Again?" I'm so confused. "We've been in the lab before?"

  "Well, duh."

  The boy definitely has a favorite phrase. I take a deep breath, hoping my wacky emotional outbursts don't transfer into dreams because this would definitely be a situation where I'd lose control. I'm not exactly the best around children.

  "Can you tell me when we were in the lab?" I ask, hoping that it's the right question. Logan puts down his pencil, seeming to think over his answer.

  "Before your birthday."

  "When was my birthday?"

  "This isn't how this works," Logan says in his grown up voice and I take a step back. I blink and then it's him as I know him now.

  Older.

  Handsome.

  A liar.

  "What isn't how it works?"

  "You're not asking the right questions. You don't ask the right questions." He stands up from his chair, taking a step toward me as I instinctually back up.

  "You don't trust me." It isn't a question, but I nod anyway.

  "You betrayed me."

  "Did I?" He has the audacity to cock his head to the side, studying me like I've said something crazy.

  "You know full well you did!" Now I'm shouting. I have no idea if this is my subconsciousness working out some issues or some stupid Kallos trick and I don't care.

  "You brought me into a trap. You allowed them to take Blake. And now she's a robot, just like the rest of them and it's all your fault. YOUR. FAULT." I
'm breathing hard, trying to calm my racing heart, but it's no use. I'm seething.

  "Is that really what you're upset about?" He asks the question softly, the perfect contrast to my fuming rage.

  "What?" I can't wrap my mind around his words. Why would I be upset over anything else?

  "Is it because you think I betrayed you or because I broke through your defenses?"

  His question is like a freezing gust of wind and I'm gasping for air.

  Sputtering.

  Spitting.

  Panting.

  "You have no right to pretend like what you did wasn't wrong."

  "Sometimes we do bad things with good intentions."

  "Don't start quoting some visionary mumbo jumbo to me, Logan. You betrayed me. That's that." No longer can I stand here and look at him. I turn to go back out the door the younger Logan brought me through, when he stops me.

  "You're still not asking the right questions."

  "I don't know what you want from me, Logan," I say without turning around. "This is just a dream."

  "At least we're talking and you're not trying to kill me," he says so quietly I almost don't hear it. But I do. I turn to look at him as he watches me steadily back.

  "I would do anything for you, Anastasia. I need you to believe that."

  This time he looks me right in the eyes and it's like he's gazing deep down, to the bottom of my heart.

  "It's been a long time since I've believed in anything good. Let alone you." I reply, the weight of my words a physical burden of truth I carry. "It's time to wake up now."

  With that, I turn away pulling the door open in the same motion. Darkness greets me on the other side, but it's what I'm used to. There's nothing light about my life anymore.

  I don't hesitate another moment. I take the step inside the black and am consumed.

  * * *

  When I wake up, I'm covered in sweat.

  Apparently, this is the only way I can sleep now. Sweating like a pig and dreaming about my horrible circumstances. I look at the clock on the bedside table and see that it's seven in the morning. I guess exhaustion caught up with me since I could actually sleep behind enemy lines.

  I sit up in bed, surprised I haven't been shackled to the bed frame. Or taken into some undisclosed facility. But this just means that they trust me at least a little, right?

  Probably not.

  I grab my duffle bag, pulling out a fresh set of clothes. I can tell someone's been through it, because things have been moved around just a little. So yes. Definitely don't trust me. Not that I'm surprised. They're not acting predictable, but they're not acting too unpredictable. If that makes sense.

  Heading to the bathroom, I turn the water on super hot first. After letting it steam up the room, I search for any cameras. I find a blowdryer and a few products under the sink, but other than that, everything is bare. I don't find any cameras that meets the eye. Doesn't mean that they're not there. But I have to take the risk, so I turn the water to warm and then get in the shower.

  This is normal.

  This is typical.

  This is something I know.

  Only water running down my skin, washing away the dreams and the worry. It might sound melodramatic, but it's the truth. Just the normalcy of this is calming my racing heart after that dream. I've stopped understanding the things my mind comes up with, while I'm sleeping, a long time ago. But it doesn't change the fact that I'm still boggled by all the realistic conversations I seem to have with my dream people.

  As much as I'd like to linger under the warm spray and forget all of my issues, reality is calling. Shutting the water off, I dry off, and put on a new set of clothes. Even though I'm missing my weapons, just freshening up makes me feel a little better.

  Probably won't last long.

  When I step outside the bathroom, there's a knock on the door. I didn't try it earlier, but I bet it was locked during the night. There is no way Joy would've just let me waltz around her precious house by myself.

  "Come in." I call out and speaking of the devil, she lets herself in. "Good morning, Joy." I smile, hoping that I don't look as crazed as I feel. She gives me a once over and then walks farther into the room.

  "Someone is cheery this morning."

  "Oh you know, nothing like a nice shower to lift a girl’s spirits."

  "Hmm." She continues to study me as I stand in front of the bathroom door, until finally coming to some kind of a decision and turning away.

  "We have a long day ahead of us. I've made breakfast, so if you’ll follow me, we will get to it."

  She doesn't wait for a response, just walks right back out of the room. What would be really helpful right now is if I could have one of those cartoon bubbles pop up over her head so that I could know what she's thinking. It probably isn't anything nice, but at least I'd know. But since there's no cartoon bubbles handy, I run a hand over my still wet hair and follow her out.

  Awesome.

  When we walk into the kitchen, I'm surprised Paul isn't there. I expected him to be, and maybe even Foster. But it's empty, except for the plates on the counter. Joy takes one and then piles on eggs and toast, so I follow suit.

  We don't speak as we eat our food, sitting at the counter instead of the table, like last time. I keep looking over at her, wondering if she'll start grilling me for answers, but there's nothing. Finally, unable to stand the silence any longer, I'm the one who breaks it.

  "Isn't there anything you want to know?" I ask, after swallowing a bite of bread. Joy studies me as she chews her own food, before replying.

  "Not really."

  "Why?"

  "Because I know a lot more than you do and you being here? It's not really a surprise to anyone."

  "Why?" I ask again, like a kid begging for answers. But I need to know. It's not like my subconsciousness will provide any answers and Foster isn't too forthcoming with the sharing. Joy seems like she can be and I hope I'm right. She doesn't like me, but just like everyone else who knows about my existence, she's intrigued.

  At first, I don't think she's going to reply. She thinks about it for fifty-two seconds before coming to a decision. Finishing off her food, she takes the plate over to the sink and rinses it, before turning her attention back to me.

  "When people are drug addicts or alcoholics, they have a tendency to sniff out the places that will quench their addiction. Kallos has developed a serum that does essentially the same thing, but on a bigger scale. The chemicals that run through your system right now are like electronic impulses. They gravitate toward the energy source, which in this case, is this facility."

  "Facility?"

  "This neighborhood was created to serve as a facility. A testing ground. But I'm not telling you anything you don't already know." She smiles then, taking the plate from me and putting it in the sink.

  "So why explain this to me at all?" I ask, watching her carefully.

  "Because just like everyone else, soon, you'll have no recollection of this conversation. Among many others. You'll be a walking, talking puppet. You'll do our bidding and there's nothing I can tell you right now that will change that. Our secrets will stay just that. Our secrets."

  She smiles again, before walking past me to the living room. "You have about ten minutes to get ready before we leave. There's a blowdryer under the sink in the bathroom, see that you use it." She walks away before I can come up with a response.

  Wherever we were going, I know she’s right about the hair. I hurry back to my room, pulling out the blowdryer and flipping my hair over. It takes me about five minutes to get it dry and when its manageable, I braid it. I'm not sure what I keep expecting, but it's not being left to my own devices. It's like waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  She's wrong, though. I can't be the person she thinks I'll be. I won't succumb to their devices, I won't become a puppet.

  I can't.

  I won't.

  What I wouldn't give for my knives right now. They'd definitely calm me
down.

  But I can't have them.

  I can't have them and I can't be myself.

  It's time for pretending now.

  I walk out of the room, heading to the front of the house. Joy is already waiting by the front door. Whatever awaits me today, I just hope and pray I can make it through. Because if I can make them believe, I'll be that much closer to making them pay.

  17.

  We drive over to the model house in silence.

  Joy doesn't say anything to me as we pull up, just gets out and walks toward the building. I'm starting to notice that is her default setting. She expects people to fall in line around her. Since I'm here to play the part of the dutiful little science project, I have to do so as well.

  Even though I'd rather use her as a punching bag.

  Getting out of the golf cart, I follow her inside the building and this time instead of the old Victorian style set up, the house is modern. The walls are white, with only five pictures in the whole downstairs that I can see. The paintings are just a pallet of color. Different colors on different walls. The front of the house opens up to a large room, with a few pieces of furniture, but nothing special or even lived in. It looks a little like Foster's office downtown.

  There are people moving around the downstairs portion of the house, seven that I can count. Joy stops when she gets to the middle of the room and a middle aged man walks up to her. They speak in hushed tones, before both of them turn to look at me. I raise my right arm and wave, receiving an annoyed glare from Joy. Shrugging my shoulders, I turn my attention back to studying the house.

  There's an upstairs and a basement, I'm sure. The houses I've been in are modeled after this one, so I'm assuming most of the set up is similar. This one, however, is used as a command center of sorts. That much I can see right away. The lavish curtains and leather chairs make the place look more official than a typically lived in house. There are panels on the inside of the house, preventing anyone from getting in or out, while still making the house look normal from the outside. It would've been a good holding cell for Blake, but since she doesn't actually need one, it would be pointless just holding her here.